


king in the ring

by Trilies



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Dimiclaude Birthday Week 2020, M/M, Tournaments, lowkey rodrigue lives au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:54:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26025292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trilies/pseuds/Trilies
Summary: In an effort to bring Almyra and Fodlan closer together, the kings of the respective lands have put together a massive tournament. King Dimitri of Fodlan has opted to enter in the lance brackets of the tournament. It's just good sense, after all. A warrior culture respects a king who is a fine warrior... and, fortunately, Faerghus was a warrior culture all its own as well.But there's something besides diplomacy that has Dimitri determined to rise through the bracket and emerge victorious as a champion. A prize he seeks to earn.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 12
Kudos: 92





	king in the ring

In his first battle of the tournament, against an opponent who does not know what is common knowledge in Fodlan, Dimitri sends him flying across the arena with one swing and promptly ends the match.   
  
Dimitri is worried about it for all of three minutes, until the man gets up to his feet with a loud laugh and smacks his shoulder, pleased with the result, _apparently_. "Yeah, some of them are like that," Felix says, nonplussed when Dimitri returns to the large tent that has been set up for his personal retinue. He's far more interested in looking over the swords he's brought carefully, as though he hadn't decided on what he would choose at least a week ago, or just the other day when the bracket was released to all the warriors participating in their respective fights. "Others get a lot more sour that they've been beaten by some Fodlan weakling, but they get over it quick. It's either that they have to admit Fodlan has fine warriors themselves, or they're weak enough to be beaten by a weakling." It's a matter of fact statement that has Rodrigue laugh, from where he's tending to the lance he'll use later in the day for the jousters.   
  
Felix has been in Almyra a couple of months again to prepare for this: the first (and hopefully bi-annual) fighting tournament between Almyra and Fodlan. In the autumn, they'll hold it in Fodlan, for a more team-based type of tournament - more similar to the Battle of the Eagle and Lion, back when the name was just a fond idea instead of a painful memory. His stay really shows in all parts of him: the way his skin has grown a little more tan, hair longer now and put into a braid. Apparently, when he first arrived, he immediately challenged a fight to someone (one of Claude's brothers, Dimitri thinks) and had promptly won. That had never really... *stopped*, apparently.   
  
So if he says that this is normal, and that things are going fine, Dimitri opts to believe him. Besides, he has more important things to keep his eye on.   
  
He has a more important _person_ to keep his eye on.   
  
Trees are not something one wastes recklessly, in Almyra. It's alright if they are used for things like furniture, or small things that need to be portable, such as merchant stalls, but for larger projects? For houses, or palaces, or, well.... an arena? In cases like that, Almyra seems to favor different types of stone for different things, and Dimitri would be a liar if he said that their stonework and architecture is anything but _brilliant_. He becomes quite familiar with it as he makes his way through the tunnels leading into the arena, admiring the various details in the walls that incorporate holes meant to bring in much colder air. It's a bit of respite from the beating heat of the sun, and he appreciates it.   
  
What he appreciates even more is what he views upon coming out into the arena, towering over the rest of the seats that are filled up with mostly Almyrans and a few scatterd individuals from Fodlan. Merchants and nobles and people Dimitri doesn't really think too much about, not compared to the man watching from the best seat in the entire arena. The tournaments have been spread out, and so have the matches, but that still doesn't mean King Kkhalid of Almyra has the opportunity to watch every single match in every place.   
  
But he watches Dimitri's. He watches every single one of Dimitri's matches.  
  
Dimitri tries to not get too caught up in this simple fact. He is in the arena first and foremost as a fighter above all - something the Almyran people seem to appreciate on some level. They look to their king just as much as a fighter as they do a leader, or someone to take care of all the boring parts of leading a country like trade and diplomacy and keeping it functioning so that they can all do what they want. Dimitri proving himself as another ruler that they can respect, a fighter as much as a leader or a diplomat, is important all on its own.   
  
More importantly, if he doesn't pay attention to the fight, he'll get his fool head knocked off by an axe, and really that's the last thing anyone needs. So Dimitri only steals that one glance at Claude's chair right at the beginning, just to remind himself that Claude is there, and then he focuses himself.   
  
He _needs_ to focus, because Almyran warriors really are no joking matter. They make it clear why, down in the Leicester area, Hilda's brother was so renowned as a leader and fighter for the Throat. His first time was lucky, but word spreads fast. After that, he has to be a lot more focused, quick, _smart_. That last one is something he's never entirely confident in himself about, if he's honest, because he's certainly no Claude, or even Felix. But he managed to survive for five years all on his own, in a variety of fights and battles. He can be a little clever, when he tries.   
  
Besides, if he tries, if he succeeds, if he _wins_ \- then he gets to look up and see Claude there. Claude in his seat, hidden under the sweet shade of the king's canopy, with a smile on his face that outdoes the very same sun which beats down on Dimitri's body so heavily. Does he always look so elated, so pleased, when other fights end? Dimitri doesn't think so. He hopes that smile is reserved only for _his_ victories.   
  
Dimitri makes sure to rack up a great many, as his particular tournament forges on. It's for those who use polearms, his own speciality. He knows his friends and allies are going through different ones: Felix the free-for-all because he'd never be sated by anything less, Rodrigue and Sylvain participating in a horse riding tournament featuring everything from fighting to racing, Ashe and Ignatz both tentatively participating in archery... Dimitri has faith that they'll all do well. But him? He plans on winning. He _has_ to win.   
  
So focused on his goal, a horse with blinders on so that it never deviates from the road, Dimitri almost doesn't realize he's nearly reached his goal until Sylvain smacks him on the back and goes, "Good luck winning the champion title, Your Majesty!" It makes him pause in the middle of maintaining his lance, Areadbhar being the only thing that can withstand his strength and constant use, and he blinks. This entire time, he's been so focused on just winning one battle at a time... Shaking his head, Dimitri takes a breath, and goes to get his things.   
  
Before he goes on to this last fight... There's something in particular he needs to make sure he has on himself. Something he absolutely can't let himself forget.  
  
In the tunnel leading out into the arena, hot desert air turning cool as it slips through into shadow, Dimitri closes his eye and takes in a long slow breath that settles in the perimeter of his lungs, filling it like water to lakes. Outside, he can hear Claude giving a speech - this really is the last battle of the tournament. It's something sweet, and warm, and inspiring. Perhaps he's just biased. Dimitri doesn't think so. He knows how hard Claude is courting his country to engaging with those outside their borders. Has this tournament inspired them? Has it helped Claude? He hopes so.   
  
The speech is all careful suggestions, gentle guidance, merging his people's beliefs and values into a twist that takes them alongside the rest of the world. Dimitri admires it, not only as a lover treasuring the words of someone he holds so close to his heart, but as one king listening in on another. Will he ever be such a wordsmith? He doubts it. But perhaps he can still listen and learn... and maybe find a different way to have such words at his disposal.   
  
Claude finishes his speech. There is a call for the warriors to step forth. Dimitri does, and observes the opponent before him. It's a woman, he thinks. Almyra is rather fluid on gender, and he's still trying to figure out the literal cultural details they use to signal how they wish to be preferred as, but he's fairly positive here. Most of her head is shaved, save for a row of bangs that falls over her bright playful eyes and two long braids that frame her face. She's tall, nearly as much as she is, with a body that doesn't seem to have quite enough flesh in it to fit her actual frame.   
  
But there's still muscle in her arms, and a well practiced ease to how she handles her own polearm, something with a sharp tip meant to pierce. She seems more than happy to be here, and raises her spear in a quick flick of a salute. "'Lo!" she says, grin wide as the two of them stop a respectable distance from each other. In challenges and arena fights, Dimitri has learned, there's a different distance depending on weapon, the nature of the challenge, and a few other things. Polearm warriors like himself are given a pretty long range to really wind things up, and so she shouts at him, just a little. "Fodlish isn't great, but... Les'fuck each other up!"   
  
...Dimitri is not entirely sure if she knows what she's saying or not. She seems so _excited_. Recovering himself, he readies Areadbhar and nods to her politely. "May the best warrior win." His opponent laughs even more, and readies herself. Their middle, their referee, gives the go ahead shortly after, and they go right at it.   
  
He suspects she's seen at least a few of his matches, because it's hard to beat her on sheer strength alone. She's quick, using the thrust of her spear to move as much as it is to actually try and attack him. Felix would like her - actually, he probably already knows her and certainly likes her, for the way she uses her feet and the rest of her body as much as her weapon. Later, maybe, he can talk to her more, with a translator on hand. For now, he fights.   
  
Eventually, he wins.  
  
If this were a Faerghus fight, he'd be hardly injured at all with his heavy plate protecting him. At least, you know, for a friendly arena or tournament fight. But he's had to wear lighter clothing, lighter armor where there is armor at all. His adrenaline and a very rough past don't really acknowledge any pain, but he can still tell that he's bleeding when he finally steps away from where his opponent is splayed on the ground and removes Areadbhar from near her throat. She's laughing again. He can feel blood trickling down one arm, and tackiness where a part of his shirt is clinging to his skin.   
  
As his sense of awareness comes back to him, Dimitri realizes that there's a roar rippling throughout the stadium at the battle, and Mercedes has trotted out from his side of the arena to immediately start binding his wounds back together with a well placed healing magic interspersed with things such as plucking fabric away from flesh. He doesn't think much on any of that. All Dimitri does is look up, to where the king of Almyra sits.   
  
Claude's smile is the brightest it's ever been, so bright that it feels as though it illuminates every dark hollow inside of Dimitri and allows himself to just be _seen_. All the other matches have had Claude leaning back in his seat, relaxed in the end even if he were more excited than anyone. Now, however, he's leaning forward, with his hands pressed into the armrests as though he wants to push himself off the chair and down into Dimitri's arms. If only he would.   
  
He doesn't. Instead, Claude - King Khalid here in Almyra - raises his voice to be heard above the roar of the crowd. "An excellent match between one of our finest, Lady Vora, and King Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd from our neighboring Fodlan!" The cries rise ever higher, reaching clouds as easily as wyverns do. Grinning, Claude allows them all their excitement and just waits for it to die down. When they do, he shoots out a quick called out question in Almyran to Lady Vora, who is dusting herself off and looking for her shattered spear.   
  
Grinning wide, Lady Vora gestures her arms out widely and says something that earns just a bit of laughter from some of the crowd, and certainly from Claude himself. Picking up half of her weapon, she waves it cheerfully at Dimitri. At least it's not threatening?   
  
Claude helpfully translates. Well. To a degree. "She says you have quite a bit of skill, King Dimitri," Claude drawls. "Well, that, and a couple of other things that I believe are best left unsaid for a bit. And what of you, my guest and fellow king? Did you enjoy the match yourself?"   
  
Even now, years after the war, Dimitri is still not entirely sure of his relationship with fighting. On one hand, it consumed his life in more than one way and represents one of the most miserable things he often had to do. On the other hand, it's a release, a way of bonding, something he can't deny he's good at and that in turn makes him _feel_ good.   
  
On the third hand, no one in this arena has asked for a dissertation on his many mental issues and traumas, so instead Dimitri calls back with, "Like all of Almyra's warriors, she's incredibly skilled! I could not have asked for a stronger opponent!" Lady Vora is on his blind side and, when he looks back at her, she's being assisted by an Almyran healer herself - tall as him, long dark hair tumbling over his back in thick curls, and talking to her in quiet excited Almyran that Dimitri suspects is a translation.   
  
The answer seems to please Claude, and Dimitri suspects the same can be said of at least more than a few people in the audience. They all want a challenge, after all, but they don't want to be insulted. Dimitri knows the type. How could he not? He knows Felix. "We'll gladly take the compliment," Claude says. "Now, since you are a stranger to our lands, King Dimitri, you should know that we have all of our champions speak at the end of the tournament, when every victory has been claimed and our feast takes off in full. But is there any small thing you would like to say now, as a victor for this battle?"   
  
Here it is. Dimitri's heart crashes into his ribcage, a wild animal seeking freedom. This is the moment he's been waiting for. "There is one thing I would like to say," he agrees, steeling himself. He's been steeling himself for ages now, and the moment is right in front of him. He only need reach out and take it. "I would like a gift. King Khalid, you have done an unbelievable amount of work in setting up this tournament. Your warriors are incredible, and I see nothing but a land bested by the Almyran spirit. You are the perfect example of this, with a verdant spirit that has been carried out on prosperous winds."   
  
They're lovely words, words he's spent a lot of time carefully thinking on and practicing. Up above, he can see the curl of Claude's lips, but there's a sharpness and curiosity to his eyes as he wonders what gift Dimitri could possibly ask for, and how big it might be if it's preceded by all these flowery words.   
  
Honestly, it is one of the largest things Claude could ever possibly give him... but Dimitri doesn't think he'll be refused. He knows he won't be refused.   
  
"That spirit and strength is one of the most beautiful things I have ever witnessed... So, King Khalid of Almyra, I ask you for this and only this-" From his belt, Dimitri pulls out-   
  
"Your hand in marriage, if you find me suitable."   
  
More noise, more yelling, more excitement, but Dimitri hardly notices it at all. Every single voice reaches him as if from another world entirely, because they are not _Claude's_ voice. They are not the voice of the man who is looking down at him with those brilliant eyes, that warm smile, that love as eager as Dimitri's own. They both want this, after all. They've both wanted this for so long. Long ago in a warmly illuminated little room, surrounded by paintings.   
  
"I find you more than suitable, as a matter of fact, King Dimitri."   
  
He says more things after that, words that flower as much as Dimitri's had, but nothing that is a refusal, nothing to say they can't do this. Dimitri can't really listen, but he makes sure to keep his ears out for that much. But then Claude is done, stepping back and off of his seating area, and Dimitri turns away to head back to the tunnel he first entered from. He knows it's the tunnel he entered from, because Mercedes is there with him, leading the way as her hands press against her lips in delight. His heart is still pounding heard, and the adrenaline is practically making his head swim. How on earth could he pay attention to petty things like what exit he needs to take?   
  
All of his friends are there when he steps through - all of his friends from the Blue Lions house when they were all classmates, he means. Besides the professor? The professor couldn't make it. Their other friends - Hilda, Ignatz, them - they're elsewhere. He doesn't know where. Dimitri is fairly certain that he's still riding the high of proposing in the middle of the arena, and the high of Claude saying 'yes'.   
  
He said yes.   
  
People are talking. The shadow of the tunnel hallway feels so good. Dimitri blinks and catches onto some of the conversation that's actually happening. Felix is demanding to know just how long he's been planning this, Ingrid has so many questions on how this is going to work, Annette is gushing about what a wedding would even look like between two kings while Dedue and Ashe try to quietly give their own congratulations over the sound of all _that_ , and Sylvain's delighted laughter, and he wonders if Rodrigue got caught up in a conversation with some Almyran noble or merchant on the way over...   
  
Dimitri blinks again. There's so much he should address, here. At the very least, he should say thank you to Dedue and Ashe for their congratulations. They've been such good friends to him, better than he could have ever dreamed of. And Felix and Ingrid - they're just surprised, he can tell they're happy and delighted too, it's just that Felix reacts to surprise by replacing it with anger, and Ingrid worries. Dimitri opens his mouth to address everything they're all saying, or at least ask where Rodrigue is, or say 'thank you'.   
  
"He said yes," Dimitri says instead, smiling widely, before he realizes he's sweating worse than a hog and the lightheadedness might not just be from adrenaline.   
  
And that's around the time he keels over and faints from heat exhaustion, to the startled yelling of all his friends.

**Author's Note:**

> "james didn't you write a proposal fic already" listen i am indecisive and want to see it happen all the time
> 
> Also, Lady Vora is an actual OC of mine who I thought would be fun to slide in here! She was a Sylveon gijinka once, and now she's just everywhere, like any OC I make. She's just here to have a good time, flirt and fight and maybe other things that begin with 'f'. So yes, she is *very* aware of the wording she used when speaking to Dimitri. 
> 
> My good friend Callie is the one who came up with the title, ftr, and it has a good mouth feel 
> 
> I kinda want to write more about everyone messing around in this fighting tournament tbh..... but maybe another day. when i'm not on such a time limit.


End file.
